Whisper Her Name

Inner Experience

I have whispered her name into ears
sitting at tables across from mine.
And each sentence muttered
across plates of cheery food

and sweaty cups, was stabbed
by her name as it rushed
from my lips and straight through
swollen words of old withering ones.

One woman moved in her seat
like an ice cube, melting and twisting,
she sank right in front of me,
dying in the heat, and I could do nothing but

whisper her name.

The clinking silverware danced in movements
across the wounded room,
how glass can make a shivering sound,
you will not know if not there.

The ringing forks as they slid across,
ripened into blossoms of caution,
“don’t speak, don’t speak”
they feverishly sang,
and I, I could do nothing but

whisper her name.